The sound of the coffee grinder woke me at about 0730. The aroma shortly brought me to the kitchen. Bruce stood there, grinning. My host. He knew coffee would work its magic.
After a full week of hectic business travel, I'd arrived last evening, Friday, for one of my occasional visits, planning to spend about a week. Great relaxation. Bruce and I were long-term running and research pals. We'd been close friends since graduate school some twenty-five-plus years earlier -- since before he started dating Carol, his wife. I'd arrived quite late, let myself in. Bruce had muttered a greeting from their bedroom, but this was my first sight of either of them on this visit.
Carol was up and out already -- she'd left on one of her patented high-intensity long bike rides a couple hours earlier, her standard Saturday practice. Bruce didn't bicycle with her -- for good reason. Carol was tough, wiry, smallish, and intense - driven - about both her chemistry and biking. A couple of decades back, she'd been good enough for national sponsorship by manufacturers, even made the cover of a big cycling mag.
Ten minutes into coffee the garage door opened and in she came, dripping with sweat, her racing jersey and cycling shorts plastered to her like a coat of yellow enamel. I'd always secretly lusted after her, even though she was anything but "my type"... tight little rock-hard bottom, not an ounce of fat twixt skin and muscles anywhere. Perhaps a whole 34AA bra, but nipples hard and brilliant through the jersey. And a stunningly fast mind with a wicked sense of humor -- that overrode anything physical. I had never told Bruce of my private lusting for Carol, of course, and never did the slightest little thing about it, nothing whatever, in over twenty years.
She greeted me with a sweat-damp hug. Bruce poured her a cup, loaded it with sugar and cream. She stuck her tongue out at him and stepped to the fridge, reached into a bowl on top, extracted two little black magnetic dots. She made rather much of a silent show of sticking them in place in a little matrix of about fifteen or twenty similar dots on the door.
Bruce flushed bright red, cleared his throat. Carol didn't quite glare at him, but it was close.
I hadn't a clue what it meant, and in all innocence I asked "What's all that about?"
Bruce looked at me, then at Carol, seemed to get a signal, and then shrugged. "Ummm. It's just part of our relationship... me and Carol. She's ..." He paused, looked over at her again as if for permission. Before I could protest that maybe I didn't want to know, he rattled on. "In case you didn't know it, little Miss Carol here has the strongest sex-drive of any woman on the planet. Way beyond my own, I'm afraid. But we found that out before we got married and the explicit agreement was that she is to get a minimum of two orgasms per day. She's pretty insistent..."
Carol broke in briefly "Damn right I'm insistent! It's part of the deal. You knew, Bruce, within days after we met, that I need a lot of sex. And you've done pretty well, really, all things considered! But look at that fridge door!"
Bruce ahemed: "The dots are my cumulative missed quota for the last few weeks -- not sure just how long, sometimes we run out of dots. A performance measure. Got two demerits today for being way too tired to be interested or available or capable last night. That's about a month's worth of demerits up there, so you can see why Carol's a little peeved."
Bruce poured more coffee into the silence -- I didn't really have anything to say, this was all a bit more personal and private than I was used to.
Finally, Bruce grinned, laughed, and said "You know, Ed, I think that of all my friends, all OUR friends, you're probably the horniest male. All of us agree on that, and have for years. But I'll bet that even you couldn't keep up with Carol. Although you certainly do come well recommended."
Carol flipped off an aside -- "You guys know full well that there's no woman alive who can't, if she wants to, on any given afternoon fuck to death any three or four men... and you get to choose the victims!"
I was taken aback, asked the obvious question -- recommended by whom? Carol laughed and said "Don't be so surprised, Ed. Your old girl friend Miss Marsha-with-Boobs and I used to talk a lot whenever the two of you would meet here for a tryst. I know you both thought you were being quiet while you were pounding away on one another in the guest room, but believe me, you WEREN'T silent! Then afterwards, Marsha loved to talk about what you two had been up to. Interesting stories, weren't they, Bruce?"
He nodded: I felt my face flush as red as Bruce's had earlier.
"You have no idea how horny and up-tight Carol would get while you two were here!" said Bruce with another wry smile. "What with you and Miss Boobs getting a lot, and Carol not getting enough..." He looked over at the fridge again, looked at Carol, then stood, put his empty cup in the sink.
He picked up his briefcase, put his hand on the knob, and looked at us, still working on our coffees. "Ed... how'd you like to be my stand-in? Pinch hitter, designated hitter, whatever sports simile you'd like?"
My jaw must have dropped an inch: he snorted, laughed gently, and continued: "Don't look so stunned, dammit... you'd be doing both of us a huge favor, if you're interested. Which I suspect you are, given the way you've always kept track of Carol's derrière! I won't be back until two this afternoon, maybe later. If you've a mind to help us out, it'd be nice to see a few of those dots gone when I return."
I was completely floored, unable to speak. Bruce held my eye as he opened the door, and as he exited he said "Word of warning -- Carol is NOT a kisser, doesn't appreciate it in the least. But she's awfully good otherwise, believe me."
The door closed behind him.
